the existence of damages
by salty nap princess
Summary: She blew up his world with him still in it / Destruction was the answer – J.D.-centric


**the existence of damages**

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– inspired by **Anidoodles** 's animatics and Tumblr headcanons, and **KleverKat** 's theory videos –

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Are you deranged like me?  
Are you strange like me?  
Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?

– **Halsey** , _Gasoline_

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She blew up his world with him still in it. At least, that's what Jason Dean would like to think as he stands in a stuffy suit, holding back tears as his mother's coffin is lowered into the ground.

He wished he was holding her hand instead of dying flowers. He hopes it's his last funeral (but little does he know that that kind of mind-set will change in a few years' time).

"What are we going to do now, dad?" Jason asks his father, his voice impossibly small and weak.

"I don't know," Bud answers – he never gave it much thought.

Bud Dean; a man with a title to his name, the big guy, someone who knew more about destruction and dynamite than anyone else. His job was to destroy, so when he did the exact opposite of that; **created** something – a family, _a son_ – to say that he was a _little_ lost at raising something up for once in his life would be an understatement.

He's not good at this … 'raising' business. Bud's only good at finding a core, striping it down from the inside out and watching it collapse. BOOM, easy. Barely a minute's worth.

But raising something from the ground, a child who watched his mother kill herself, that would be impossible.

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Bud almost swallows his cigarette as he drives like a madman. He's been chain smoking after receiving the news. First, his dead wife and now _this_? A call from the school. Apparently, some punk's has been bullying Jason after they moved away from Texas and instead of handling the punk themselves, the school had decided to call him to settle things. Can't schools do anything right? _Unbelievable._

Even more so that, instead of fighting back, Jason had decided to tattle on the bully. His son fucking _tattled_. Doesn't Jason know that snitches get stitches? That boy needs to learn _not_ to rely on school authority that can't (won't) do jackshit.

Looks like Bud will have to enrol Jason in some class for self-defence. Karate or judo or one of those Asian martial art things. Like he fucking knows, does it matter?

"You're going to learn to kick and punch and aim at where it hurts." Bud says as the car engine hums and the small vehicle fills itself with cigarette smoke.

Jason looks at his dad from the passenger seat. He's scrapped and battered but Bud won't even look at his own son in the eye. "But, dad, I don't want to."

Bud scoffs. "Don't want to what?" It isn't exactly a question though.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Jason says, innocently. He's still pure, eleven years old, half an orphan with no one at his corner. Not even his own father.

Bud finally looks at Jason in the eye but Jason is quick to learn that his father's full undivided attention on him is the last thing he wants.

The older man says, " _Well_ , you may not want to hurt anyone but people will hurt you." Bud lights another cigarette. "People are **always** willing to hurt you. And, sometimes you won't be so lucky because they won't hold back the next time. The world doesn't owe you a cent."

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Living life on the road with barely a suitcase to weight him down wasn't as glamorous as TV made it sound. J.D. could fit his _entire life_ in a single suitcase and still have space to fill. It was …

It –

He didn't know if that was impressive or sad.

.

.

.

(he decides both)

…

Funny enough, J.D. thought shitty motels were **actually** fun. _Crappy,_ but fun. Because motels meant something besides the endless blue skies to stare at and comfy beds and long showers.

He especially loves the access to a bathroom. And, no, it wasn't because he got a chance to take a leak somewhere that wasn't the side of the road.

It was because he had chance to be **clean** , _for once._ But, also, not exactly. The motel bathrooms were always dingey. Couldn't trust those damn shower-tub things, _ever_. Water would pool around his feet every time he showered, filth gathering, and the floor creaked when he stepped into the tub.

(it was still something, though)

Sometimes he wondered if it would be better for the whole floor to collapse and swallow him whole while he was at his cleanest. Sometimes he wondered if things would have been better if he wasn't standing under running water but instead gone like his mother.

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They finally rent a house after a year of being on the road and staying in cheap motels. The first thing that J.D. does, beside learn where the nearest 7-Eleven is, is to learn how to cook.

Pasta, the same meal for the past two weeks. It's … alright in terms of taste. A little bland but, hey, you say 'tomato' and he says ' _tomato_ '. It's still better than cold sandwiches. Food is food. It was better that it was fresh and warm.

.

.

.

(but it won't ever rival with his mother's cooking)

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His son is … fourteen, Bud thinks, so arguably, Bud finally has something to say to J.D.

Some common ground after so many grilling years of awkwardness and silence. After all, _everyone_ knows boys only have one thing on their minds. So, if anything, he could start the conversation with the birds and the bees, then extend it from there.

"Let's talk."

"About what?" J.D. asks as his dad pops in a VHS copy in for them to watch. J.D. doesn't move though, he's going to stand several feet away from the couch.

"Anything." Bud answers.

 _How broad._ J.D. thinks dryly.

"Okay, what about this?" Bud suggests just as J.D. has half the mind to say something sarcastic. " _Hey, pop_." Bud says, mimicking an average day conversation between two completely unfucked up people. " _I had an absolutely shit day today at school. It's_ ** _amazing_** _how schools are willing to spend_ _weeks_ _teaching me about the power house of the cell but not on how to pay my taxes_."

J.D. snorts, a bitter smirk on his face. _Oh_ , J.D. knows how to do just that. He pays the rent when Bud forgets.

" _Gosh, son, that sounds boring. I wish I could relate but I can't because my day didn't suck as badly as yours._ " J.D. answers, playing along.

A pause follows from Bud as he takes in his son's sarcasm. Bud says, "That's the spirit."

The VHS copy plays – the screen flickers to a filmed demolition – a prideful Bud chuckles at the aftermath of rubble and dust and destruction while J.D. watches in admiration, only steps behind his father.

That's the day he learns, **destruction** is the _answer_.

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"Are you another 'Heather'?" J.D. asks, seventeen and already so sick of high school. His first interaction with the 'blue Heather' may just be a noteworthy one. _Definitely_ life changing.

"No, I'm a 'Veronica'," She answers with a smile on her face then asks, "What's your name?"

"J.D." He says, trench coat and all. After all, no one's called him 'Jason' since his mother blew herself up and his entire world in front of him.

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Destruction is _key_. J.D. knows this is true as he holds the demise of Heather Chandler in a simple white mug filled with liquid blue dish cleaner.

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"I mean, today was great. Chaos was great." J.D. says, practically breathless, ready to jump into his long speech without talking a gulp of air. He's confident and his trademark smirk stretches on his face as he says, "Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, darling."

Chaos was the _only_ answer for Westerburg High, _society_ , to live in peace. The world needed a cleaning from the assholes who ruled over it and did a pretty shitty job of running it. First, Heather Chandler, the bitch who deserves to die. Then the Kurt and Ram who will never contribute to anything besides date-rapes and bullying.

Chaos is _power_. Chaos is _him_ ; Jason Dean. He gets to decide who gets to live and die. And _no one_ was going to stop him.

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He's bleeding all over the place, the tables have turned. He's _not_ chaos. He's _not_ who he thought he was. He was _no_ God, but damn it to hell, he wouldn't say he wasn't close to becoming one either.

All he wanted was a clean slate. An eternal peace where he could start over, rid of the assholes and bitches. Was it so difficult to understand that blowing up the school was the best answer? Without society there wouldn't be any standards. And without a status quo to fill, _maybe_ , just fucking maybe he _could_ have **finally** be happy. Be _loved_ by the one person he could rely on.

"Maybe I am killing everyone in this school because nobody loves me!" J.D. says, a bittersweet smile stretched, blood leaking from the corner of his lips. He has the audacity to laugh at the body count and fake suicide notes and Martha's crushed dreams.

But now he can't really say that he can rely on Veronica Sawyer, can he? Not when she's holding a gun aimed at his chest. She **never** loved him. No one did. Not Veronica or his dad or his mom who couldn't even stay alive for her own son.

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He staggers away from it all – Westerburg High, the Heathers and the Marthas, Veronica – with a finger missing and dynamite strapped to his chest. And, no, he wasn't talking about his old man's explosives. He was talking about the ticking time bomb that is his cold, dead heart.

The only way J.D.'s ever going to been seen, heard or barely even noticed is though the **extreme**. Like he had said in his concrete oasis between linoleum aisles, "The extreme always seems to make an impression". And what better way than to go out with a bang?

 _Five._

Veronica stands at the top of the steps, looking like hell, but still on top. She bruises well.

 _Four._

"Pretend that I did blow up the school." J.D. says, battered and bruised; a thing of familiarity. He earns a scoff from Veronica, he knows he's being cheeky despite it being his last words. Reckless, he knows. But when has he ever been anything but just that? " _All_ the schools. Now that you're dead, what are you going to do with your life?"

 _Three, two, one._

Veronica lights her cigarette. She says, through smoke that steals her breath away, "Say 'hi' to God."

If J.D. had a moment to spare, he would have laughed. He was right. _Damn_ right. Destruction _was_ the answer. Without him, there wouldn't be anymore deaths, anymore tears for Veronica to shed or a son to drag along with each move.

Him blowing up into a million pieces was the answer to it all. He finally understands his mother.

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 **end**

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 **Notes**

'Today was great. Chaos was great', I say to myself as I'm writing fanfic on a time crunch and have exams in three days.

– **5 May 2018**


End file.
